


On a Farmhouse

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Brotherly Bonding, Brotherly Love, But No Actual Suicide, Coda, Concerned Sam, Conflicted Dean, Episode: s11e19 The Chitters, Gen, Implied/References to Suicidal Actions, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, Sam is a Saint, Sam is the Voice of Reason, Self-Reflection, lots of Sam love in this one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-05 09:25:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6699259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fact of the matter is Dean isn't any better than the things he hunts—or rather, in the lives of the Winchesters, the things that hunt them: Always searching, never settling. Benny said it best in that homage-to-Brokeback accent before Dean raised his knife: "Truth is, I could use a break from all this.” So could Jesse and Cesar. So could Eileen and Mildred. So could he and Sam and every bastard whose hands always slipped grasping for freedom.</p><p>So could he and Cas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On a Farmhouse

**Author's Note:**

> This piece was emotionally taxing from start to finish, but it was worth it. Last episode was phenomenal. The show's portrayal of two openly gay men as strong-willed, multi-faceted badass hunters was part of many reasons why I love this show.

Dean can chalk it up to a thousand different things. His brother, his mother, his half-brother, his Electra complex, his time in Hell (—his time in _Heaven_ ), the alcohol, that one time he tripped on acid, the life, the water pressure in the fifth floor showers—you name it, it screwed him good. But the fact of the matter is Dean isn't any better than the things he hunts—or rather, in the lives of the Winchesters, the things that hunt them: Always searching, never settling. Benny said it best in that homage-to-Brokeback accent before Dean raised his knife: _"Truth is, I could use a break from all this.”_ So could Jesse and Cesar. So could Eileen and Mildred. So could he and Sam and every bastard whose hands always slipped grasping for freedom.

So could he and Cas.

No, that’s it: It’s Cas’s fault. It’s Cas’s fault for distracting him. It’s Cas’s fault for making Dean care about himself. It’s Cas’s fault for making Dean sick with worry. It’s Cas’s fault for his newly-stocked fridge and the peanut butter and jelly in the pantry next to the whole wheat bread and the grocery list on the kitchen table and Dean’s robe hanging in his closet rather than the edge of a chair in the library and the mat at the entrance Dean’s tripped over a _million_ and one times next to the key hanger, but Dean doesn’t say anything because Cas picked it out for the two tacky little bees crocheting the loosely cursive “Welcome”.

It’s Cas’s fault for being the best thing that’s ever happened to Dean, and if he thinks he’s getting away with it, he’s wrong.  It’s Cas’s fault for letting Dean rescue him, because Dean’s going to kill him just as ardently.

“Dean?”

Dean snaps his head like the seat belt currently suffocating his pelvis. Seriously, what is it with safety? Dean’s been through literal hell and back, dying in a car crash would be a godsend. (No, not God—Satan, _Cas_ —) “What?”

Sam eyebrows arch over his wide forehead with a scoff, “Should I be worried?”

Dean’s eyebrows release the draw bridge. “What?” he repeats.

“Dean, we’re sitting in the car with the windows rolled up, the keys jammed in the ignition, and the engine running—in our _garage_. Do I really need to elaborate?”

“Oh please, Sam—”

“Please? Dean, do you even know where we’re going?” At that, Dean cranks the key to the left, leans back, and stares into the big, black Men of Letters crest signed into the linoleum walls. Men of Letters, what a crock—Dean’s not worthy of anyone’s praise. He’s not even a bonafide historian, not like his old man or Bobby. He’s just one banana peel from landing his face on the cover of low fat milk cartons everywhere. “Dean? Dean, will you please answer me?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“What do I want you to say?” Sam asks incredulously. “Anything, man. Just let me know there’s a pulse.”

“What do you want, huh?” Dean shoots back, grinding his teeth into his lower lip until he’s face-to-face with his brother. “You want me to pretend like I didn’t see a burning corpse today?”

“Dean,” Sam says carefully, “we see burning corpses _every_ day.”

“I know, but—”

“But what?”

“But it could’ve been—” Dean stops, voice wavering too much to continue. It’s Cas’s fault. It’s Cas’s fault for distracting him. It’s Cas’s fault for making Dean care about himself. It’s Cas’s fault for making Dean sick with worry. It’s Cas’s fault for scheduling Dean an early death sentence after years of uninterrupted solitary confinement, for disrupting the peace Dean had after painstakingly stripping himself of all sensitivity.

It’s Cas’s fault for giving him a reason to start living again.

Dean doesn’t know how long Sam’s been boring holes into his skin to replace the pores already there, but he doesn’t seem to be relenting anytime soon. “Dean—”

“If you say we’ll find him one more time, Sam, I swear—”

“Dean, look at me.” Dean does. A flash flood either slipped through the Impala’s near-impenetrable doors, or Dean should invest in some better allergy medication. “You can have it, alright?” he says. “I am giving you my consent to have the life I know you wish you could have had—what Jesse and Cesar are going to have. I’m not saying you have to jump bay now, but if you don’t jump on this soon…”

“You mean if I don’t jump on Cas,” Dean corrects.

Sam huffs a laugh, “Dean—”

“You said it, Sammy, not me.”

“Don’t make this gross; I’m trying to impart you with something more than the loose change in the ashtray.” Dean mumbles something under his breath. “Care to share with the class?”

“That’s not loose change,” Dean pipes up in a voice barely classified above a whisper. “It’s the little green army men your chubby little fingers shoved in there.”

“Dean.”

“I hear you!” Dean argues, throwing his arms up. He feels like Napoleon when he was defeated at Waterloo: outnumbered in men _and_ size. “I hear you, man.”

Sam nods. “Well, I hear you too.” 

“Okay, now this is just getting weird.”

“You started it. I was just angling for a spare set of keys.”

Dean shakes his head; however, he’s unable to shake the grin stretching across his face. Sam grins too just before Baby revs to life again, and Dean can’t help but feel foolish all these years. Despite his old habit of dying hard, his brother’s going to stick around for a while. And so is the dorky little guy he’s in love with.

 

 

Dean can chalk it up to a thousand different things. His brother, his mother, his half-brother, his Electra complex, his time in Hell (—his time in _Heaven_ ), the alcohol, that one time he tripped on acid, the life, the water pressure in the fifth floor showers—you name it, it screwed him good. But the fact of the matter is Dean is hell-bent on a farmhouse in New Mexico. 


End file.
